


Remembered

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-19
Updated: 2002-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Ring goes south, Frodo recalls some memories</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembered

He remembered his parents.

His mother's thick, coppery hair and fine features typical of the Tooks; blue eyes shining as proof of the legend of a Faery wife somewhere in the family tree. His father -- darker, but fairer too in skin, with a wide grin and tiny gap between his two front teeth. His mother, belly swollen with child as she made her way slowly up the Hill toward Bag End, arm-in-arm with her husband and bright with laughter.

He remembered other things too; Bag End's parlour thick with smoke and strange music, large dents marring the fresh green paint on Bag End's door. He remembered -- and he isn't sure if this isn't a nightmare, this -- clinging to barrels sliding and sipping away from him, clinging so hard that his fingers hurt; but feeling at the other end his toes going numb in cold water.

He remembered eyes, luminous in the darkness and coupled with a slimy unease. And eyes deep-set in a craggy face, gleaming still with (waning) life as the face around it goes slack, words still coming out strong: _"There is more in you of good than you know . . ."_

 

Bilbo's memories; they must be. He's spent the larger part of his life (and as long as he can remember) listening to them, reading them, telling them himself . . . It's not surprising that on his own adventure he would be reminded of these.

_And my own is quite different._

Long treks across wilderness and now approaching snow; countless days ending in exhaustion more from a constant state of anxiety than from physical exertion.

Bilbo's memories, then; Bilbo's _stories,_ told to excite or comfort a young hobbit-lad.

He remembered blue ribbons, loose and bedraggled, interwoven with his father's waxy, unmoving fingers. Remembered the clinging of his mother's hair to her face, _over_ her face, wet and surely choking her but she was so still . . . Remembered leaving that room, closing the door softly behind him and leaning against it and catching movement out of the corner of his eye as he dug into his weskit pocket for a handkerchief . . . A hobbit lad, still quite young and slight, lips pursed in a kind of unrelenting determination and eyes glinting through an unheeded fringe of dark copper curls, not yet completely darkened with maturity.

Bilbo hadn't told him that.

He opened his eyes blinking up at the piercing light of the stars. Sighing, he lifted a numb hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing sleeplessness. It wasn't as if he didn't _need_ it . . . Sam mumbled something in sleep and shifted, flinging an arm over Frodo's chest before settling again; steady snores emerging from somewhere amongst the tangle of his blankets.

"Sam," Frodo whispered -- well, _considered_ whispering, for when it came to it, he knew Sam would wake at the slightest call from him - but was unwilling to disturb such well-deserved slumber. Sam, he knew, was carrying more than any of them in his pack. Though Merry and Pip seemed no less willing to begrudge themselves any sleep from it; Merry was a dark, warm presence on his other side, or maybe it was Pippin -- he'd stopped trying to tell the difference long ago: as soon as night fell they seemed to meld together in a tangle of limbs.

A soft, familiar crackling in the darkness; he turned his head to look across the glowing embers, remnants of a tiny campfire -- all the heat and light Strider would allow them -- and saw the brief flare of light outline the lines of Gandalf's face, the bushy eyebrows and crag of a nose. His eyes were in darkness; a brief glimmer as he inhaled, cheeks hollowing; but comforting nonetheless. Frodo closed his eyes again, blessing the fact that at least the Ring's sibilant whispers had ceased.

 

The ground was rough and cold underfoot -- treks in the Shire had no where near prepared him for this -- and he remembered a river.

Remembered the sharp glint of sunlight on the water, remembered turning over to lie on his stomach, arms pillowing his head and closing his eyes to breathe in the damp scent of earth on his hands. He remembered hearing a quiet laugh, as warm as the sun on his back, and he remembered rolling on his side and squinting.

_"It's about time you got out into the sunlight, dear cousin, as much as you enjoy burrowing into the ground, I much prefer it when you're out here with me."_

He remembered the taste of the other's skin -- sweet, so sweet it was almost unbearable, but he couldn't get enough -- and his hair like spun gold, even in darkness. He remembered the languid movements of water under him, remembered the red brand of the sun on through his eyelids. Remembered the start of terror like dying as the golden one cried out and followed his self-made fishing line into the cool waters of the river.

"Mr Frodo?"

He started, blinked, turned towards the voice and the light touch on his forearm.

"Is everything all right? You seem a bit . . . Distant, if you'll pardon me saying so."

Frodo shook his head and smiled slightly, absently. "Yes, of course Sam." Then, seeing as the other didn't appear at all reassured, "Just lost in my thoughts -- I must have _something_ to distract me from--" He gestured vaguely.

Sam nodded, his features softening from immediate concern to a kind of tenderness. "Well lunch will distract you enough -- Strider says it's time for a break."

"Oh."

He shifted his arms obediently as Sam helped him shrug off the pack, feeling as if each step he took was a leap from the sudden loss of weight. He looked around at the rest of the Fellowship; in various stages of rest (or unrest). Pippin and Merry, sitting on the ground with legs splayed out as if they'd set themselves down as soon as they heard the word _stop;_ both gnawing on heels of bread and cheese. Gimli, wavering as if debating whether to sit down or not, not far from the still-standing, still-alert Legolas. Strider -- not in sight, no doubt scouting further ahead; Boromir crouched by his pack, shield still strapped to it as if it were a giant snail, rummaging for food. Gandalf, once more producing his pipe and proceeding to create a colourful halo of smoke rings. He looked over at Frodo and smiled.

And Sam -- "Here, eat this Sir. You'll need your strength for the next stretch; we have quite a climb ahead of us, if I'm not mistaken."

Sam was right -- the landscape had changed as they toiled on; brief patches of snow freckled the dark terrain around them like spilt milk, and the ground had definitely increased it's incline since they'd started off that morning. Dark rocks, damp and jagged, thrust up from earth that seemed more silt than clay; sparse growth clung to them or in the small caverns created where they huddled together.

He smiled wearily. "Thankyou, Sam."

 

He remembered the smell of sweat and the tropical heat of summer. He remembered his shirt clinging damply to his upper body; he remembered feeling incredibly light and strong with the lack of armour weighing him down. He remembered bringing his sword up before his face; the man opposite him doing the same, casually, with a wry grin.

_"Ready then, brother?"_

_"Ready when you are, of course."_

Bringing the weapon down and moving forward in a smooth, liquid movement, laughing with the joy of doing it simply for _pleasure,_ laughing at his brother leaning forward panting, hands braced on knees, when he withdrew again.

_"You're out of practice, Anarion,"_ he remembered saying. _"We ought to spar more often."_

_"Why, so you can defeat me more often?"_ his brother responded, straightening again and dragging his forearm across his forehead, billowy white sleeves limp with sweat.

He laughed, leapt forward again. _"But you do it so spectacularly,"_ he mocked lightly, locking swords with his brother and pressing closer, forcing the other back.

_"I can't deny that,"_ Anarion grumbled, struggling to repel the weight.

_"Then why resist?"_

He remembered his brother's eyes -- a clear grey like glass storm clouds -- lifting from their concentrated frown on the locked swords to mirror his own; he remembered his brother blinking, clear gaze shifting down to the open neck of his shirt, the chain about his neck.

He shoved him back violently, and Anarion stumbled over his heels and fell heavily.

_"I thought we were only sparring, Isildur."_ He remembered that voice, soft and unassuming.

_"So did I,"_ He remembered answering, voice suddenly cold as he buttoned up his collar one-handedly, other hand holding the sword upright still.

Anarion frowned. _"You place far too much importance on that ring,"_ he said. _"It will be the death of you."_

His hand clenched convulsively, metal hot through damp cloth. _"Our father **died** for this ring,"_ he said, his voice deceptively low.

His brother rose, pushing himself up violently and striding towards him. _"Our father died for **peace,**"_ Anarion hissed.

He remembered the burning of Anarion's grasp on his wrist. He remembered trying to rip out of that grasp and at the same time bring his sword arm down; remembered the rising whispers like waves in his mind . . . _he wants it . . . kill him . . . he will take it . . ._

He remembered underestimating his brother's strength; losing his balance and falling to the ground with him; sword hitting the earth at conflicting angles and springing from his grasp. Remembered Anarion wrestling him down, pinning his wrists, the voices rising to a scream _he wants it, he is trying to take it_ . . .

Writhing then, and screaming, _"Traitor! You can't have it! It's **mine!**"_ Even as his brother's voice seemed to sob faintly somewhere behind the blood and heat filling his vision, _"Isildur . . . Isildur . . . Come back to me . . ."_

_"Frodo . . ."_

The hands still holding him down, pressing up against them desperately.

_"Frodo!"_

"Anarion," he sobbed, and stilled, and stared up into his grey eyes as the sky behind that face seemed to shift and fade, changing from the lacework of white branches to a piercing expanse of blue. The ground beneath him suddenly cold, so cold and wet where it was hot and gritty. Icy air burning his heaving lungs.

"Frodo. Come back to us."

He closed his eyes, shuddered into the welcome darkness there, and opened them again to stare up at Aragorn. "I'm here," he said hoarsely.

"What happened?" said a voice from somewhere above and behind him; Pippin, probably, from the Tuckborough lilt quavering with distress.

"Here," said another, this one deeper and familiar as the earth.

_The earth . . ._

The earth seemed to buck beneath him and the sky began to spin. _"Mithrandir,"_ he gasped, then _"Gandalf . . ."_

The bands on his wrists and weight on his shoulders eased as someone lifted him carefully from behind, propping him up into a sitting position -- and remaining there, luckily: he felt he didn't have the energy to ever move again. Aragorn disappeared from his field of vision and soon he could hear his clear, rich voice ringing out, "We'll rest here for a while -- Boromir, keep watch on the decline, Legolas, toward the summit."

He returned again, crouching down before Frodo and peering into his face before taking up one of Frodo's hands and chafing it brusquely. "Sam," he murmured softly to someone beyond Frodo's shoulder. "There is a flask of _miruvor_ in my pack, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?"

"Gandalf," he whispered through numb lips, shivering harder as the cold seemed to prickle back into his limbs like a slow wave. "What happened?"

The warmth behind him shifted, rumbled as the wizard spoke quietly. "Shouldn't we be asking you that, Frodo?"

He shivered again, violently,and squeezed his eyes shut against the heaving of world around him. He started, feeling something crawl at his throat, then swallowed hard as he realised it was his own hand, fingers trembling uncontrollably above burning gold . . .

"I--" he began, then stopped,swallowed hard. His voice was rough, soft -- as if he'd been screaming, and he didn't have the energy to raise it above a whisper. "The Ring . . ." _Anarion_, a whispered shriek in his head . . . "The Ring is working in ways I . . . didn't expect."

"It is wise, perhaps, not to expect anything."

He sighed, heart still pounding as he leaned his head back, strong, gentle arms folding a cloak around him.

"I know, but . . . How am I supposed to resist something when I don't even know what it is until too late?"

The only noise for long moments was the distant wailing of the wind amongst the icy-bitten crags. Frodo tried to slow his breathing, tried to swallow what was rising inexorably in his throat.

"By enduring, Frodo," Gandalf finally murmured. "That's all we can ask of you."

A light touch on his shoulder; Frodo opened his eyes and allowed Aragorn to tilt the flask towards his mouth. The _miruvor_ was thick, heady . . . The warmth of it soaked into him from the inside out, and his breathing finally steadied.

"We cannot stay here much longer," Aragorn said, re-capping the flask. "This spot is too exposed. Can you continue?" he asked Frodo softly.

"Yes," he said, forcing his hand down and struggling to his feet. "I must."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/3307.html


End file.
